


cinnamon and cigarette smoke

by laurapalmer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1293151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurapalmer/pseuds/laurapalmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's a lot more than an old, beat up jean jacket; it's home</p>
            </blockquote>





	cinnamon and cigarette smoke

  
_4 weeks earlier_  
I’d always thought the jean jacket was extraordinarily tacky. It never seemed to fit me right in the shoulders and it always took me twice as long to find a pair of pants to wear with it. But I know for a fact it looks better on me. She’s standing across the park, and I’m watching the way she’s twirling a piece of her bleach blonde hair around her delicate finger. She’s blowing bubbles with her gum, and the bubbles keep growing larger and larger, before deflating slowly. It appears to be pink bubblegum. He never liked bubblegum; his favorite was cinnamon. Is cinnamon. She makes a big show of wrapping her arms around herself, letting out a big shiver. I watch him shrug out of the jacket and drape it over her shoulders. She smiles up at him as she fits her arms inside. The jacket is too big on her; her hands disappear inside the sleeves and the collar is too wide on her neck. It hangs down to her thighs and vaguely reminds me of a child playing dress up in her father’s closet. It still looks the same, just a little more faded from the last time I saw it. I bet it smells the same, too. Cigarette smoke with a hint of cinnamon. He’s watching her carefully, a small smile gracing his lips. He used to look at me that way. He has his hands placed lightly on her waist, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns against her ribs. He used to touch me that way.  


 _9 weeks earlier_  
It’s blustery out today. I just needed to make a quick trip to the supermarket and this was the first jacket I saw as I headed for the front door. He had hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs when he had come in late last night. If I bury my nose into the fabric and take a deep breath, I can still smell the faint cigarette smoke from his late night smoke break. I can faintly smell cinnamon, too. It’s probably his cinnamon gum. He likes to pop in a piece after he smokes, thinking it will cover up the hint of smoke I can taste when he kisses me. I don’t usually mind it though. This jacket is kind of loose on me; it hangs down well below my waist and sometimes the sleeves slip down past my fingertips. But it makes me feel safe, at home, in this jacket. So as I’m walking down the sidewalk, cold wind whipping harshly at my face, I burrow deeper into the jacket, surrounded by cigarette smoke and cinnamon and home.  


 _present_  
I’m in a supermarket, of all places, when I see them. They’re looking at the different flavors of yogurt, and suddenly I’m far too interested in the many different types of cheese this supermarket has to offer. She’s wearing it again. Yet this time, it’s different. The sleeves are gone. She’s made it into a vest. I didn’t think jean jackets could get any tackier, but I guess I was wrong. Or maybe I’m just bitter. It’s not my jacket. It never was my jacket. But seeing her wear it makes my chest clinch and my head ache. She’s added tiny gems to the front pocket, as if she had any right at all. But she did have a right. It’s not my jacket. It’s his. It was his. I’m still standing here, surrounded by cheese, staring forlornly across an abandoned supermarket at midnight on a Tuesday. I grab a block of cheese to look busy, and then I sheepishly make my way down an aisle to try and get out unseen. I’m in the wine aisle now, and if that’s not just perfect. I’m here so I might as well pick out a bottle. Or two. As I’m concentrating on finding the strongest yet cheapest bottle of wine, I hear quiet chatter. They’re making their way past the end of the aisle, and I hear her tinkling laugh echo around the store, almost like it’s mocking me. I also get a whiff of something. It’s familiar, but it hurts all the same. It’s cigarette smoke, and if I concentrate hard enough, I can smell a slight hint of cinnamon, too. Or maybe that’s just my imagination playing a cruel trick on me. But this time when I smell it, it doesn’t feel like home. It doesn’t feel like anything, really. So I take my two bottles of wine and my block of cheese, and I leave the supermarket. And I never think of jean jackets again.


End file.
